Poison and Wine
by AriandEzra
Summary: "It's been twelve years since she's been in the heart of the city. Though only a short train ride away, Aria had always felt that taking a trip into Manhattan equaled being a masochist for the day. She didn't have promise nor did she have possibility. Aria Montgomery considered herself a depiction of slums of Brooklyn – she was nothing." (Rating subject to change)
1. Prologue

**Hey there, I'm back! And with a new story. I've always wanted to write something gritty and hopefully, this turns out to be it. I can't promise super fast updates, but I _can_ promise that there will be updates. I'm very excited for this story since it's something I've always thought about writing and I finally think I can. **

**Shoutout to Emily for helping me out initially and for all the future help that I'm probably going to need. **

**Please review! This story is my baby and I really want to see the response that you all have to it. Let me know what you think, what ideas you might have... Anything! **

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything.**

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**~Prologue~**

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**T**he air in Brooklyn had an entirely different consistency than the air in Manhattan. They both were dirty – there was no question about that –, but when you took in some air in Manhattan, there was the promise of _some_ possibility. In Brooklyn, the deep gritty part at least, there was nothing. Aria Montgomery had only been to Manhattan once when she was 10 years old. Her fifth grade class went on a rare field trip to the Museum of Natural History.

It's been twelve years since she's been in the heart of the city. Though only a short train ride away, Aria had always felt that taking a trip into Manhattan equaled being a masochist for the day. She didn't have promise nor did she have possibility. Aria Montgomery considered herself a depiction of slums of Brooklyn – she was nothing.

It was late October and the chill was just setting in. Aria tugged her thin coat around her body as she maneuvered her way through the streets. The material didn't offer much protection from the cold, but her body had gotten used to the frigid temperatures. When you grew up fighting against the wind and the rain, you eventually got used to being freezing. Her skin didn't turn blue anymore. The chill was almost like a second skin.

Aria barely registered the change in temperature as she pushed through the back door of her workplace; _The Boudoir_. For a place with such a classy name, the inside completely debased any first impressions one might have before walking inside. It was too dark, even for a strip club. Or as the owner deemed it; a gentleman's club. The men who walked in were far from gentlemen though; that Aria could attest to.

There was always a nausea inducing scent – a mixture of sweaty men and cheap alcohol. Fluorescent lights plagued the dancing area and gave whoever was on the pole a far from glowing complexion. The plush chairs were stained, the tablecloths never cleaned, and the candles reeked of a faux vanilla and lavender concoction.

In short, _The Boudoir_ was a dump. But, it was the only place that Aria had ever known. One could say she grew up here, without _actually_ growing up there. Her mother had been a stripper. But after she went off the deep end, Aria took her place. Someone had to make money.

When she was younger, Aria had often imagined her life playing out in Cinderella fashion. A handsome prince of sorts would come and sweep her feet and get her out of her life in the slums. She'd trade her in crappy winter coat for a fur one and her shoebox apartment would transform into a penthouse. It didn't take long for that dream to be shattered. There wouldn't be an escape – there never was for someone like her. Someone who submitted to the dark rather than fight her way out.

Aria plopped down at her dressing station and placed her head in her hands. She hadn't gotten much sleep the night before. Between her mother's screaming at her boyfriend of the week, the couple moaning upstairs, and the prostitutes that advertised themselves loudly on the streets below, slumber was near to none.

The ensemble she'd be wearing on the floor that night was laid over the back of her chair. As always, it was made of the itchy synthetic lace. They couldn't even afford a few pieces from Victoria's Secret. Aria typically tried to find ways to make it look less trashy – not as heavy makeup, snipping a few of the rhinestones off with a nail clipper. The filth never changed though. That too became a second skin.

"You look exhausted." Aria peeked up from her hands to see Spencer, a fellow stripper, waltz through the backstage entrance. Both girls had the same shift and it was the only thing Aria was grateful for, besides the money. Spencer was different than she was; that being that Spencer had confidence. She was a fighter. _But_, she had something to fight for.

Spencer's husband, Andrew, was laid off from a high profile job. The two together had over $100,000 debt in student loans and an infant to provide for. The job wasn't ideal, not for Spencer who went to school to be a lawyer, but she was doing what she could while Andrew looked for a job of his own.

Aria thought highly of her, more so than anyone in her life. Then again, between her alcoholic mother and her father who left when she was six, Aria didn't have very many people that inspired her. Her coworker was strong – she didn't taken shit from any man on the dance floor. Her number one rule was "look, but don't touch". If a guy copped a feel, they'd be out of the club within seconds out of sheer terror that Spencer would club them.

"More than you?" Aria smiled softly. Spencer often complained about how she barely got any sleep because of her daughter's wails.

The taller brunette nodded. "Emerson decided to be a good girl last night – the best sleep I've had in weeks. The best sex too," Spencer replied whilst winking.

_Sex_. Aria missed sex. She avoided it at all costs now simply because she was afraid of a man's intention behind it. Did they see her as an equal to the prostitutes that hollered on her street at night? A trophy? A potential murder victim? The what-if's outweighed the feeling of pure pleasure every time. Aria never let herself get close to a man. The ones in the past never seemed to stay and she didn't expect anyone to ever. She wasn't worth wasting affection on.

Pursing her lips, Aria nodded. There was no real reply to that. She couldn't relate and she didn't want to tell noble Spencer about how her mother had drank too much the night before and how her neighbors humped like rabbits. Instead, she let the conversation fall flat and began to put on her makeup. Along with her itchy white lace ensemble, Aria planned to make herself look like the picture of innocence. It would get her better tips.


	2. Chapter 1

**Eeeep! I'm so excited to see that you guys like this story. I'm really loving it too. I'm sorry if this chapter is a little slow. Everything really picks up in the next one. I have a general idea of what's going to happen and it's a catalyst for the entire story. **

**Keep reviewing! They mean a lot to me and fuel me to keep continuing to write. **

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. **

**Also, HAPPY EZRIA SEX DAY!**

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**T**he only area in Brooklyn that Ezra Fitz had ever stepped foot into were the posh, upcoming areas. According to the aristocratic society in Manhattan, the Upper East Side was very 2008; Brooklyn was 2014. He'd been to lofts in Williamsburg, dinner parties hosted by his mother's friends in Park Slope, but Ezra had never been in the more run down area. It wasn't by choice though.

Though Fitz was his last name, Ezra was a descendent of the Springer family. As in the Springers who owned their own museum and had art galleries all over the city. Ezra's father had left when he was younger. His mother always said that it was because of irreconcilable differences, but as he got older, Ezra discovered the truth on his own. His father didn't split because of differences – his mother pushed him away because he wasn't a millionaire; because he was from an entirely different world that she was. And just as she had done with his father, Diane was slowly pushing her oldest son away too.

His mother's family had a specific set of unsaid rules. A Springer was never supposed to set foot in anywhere that didn't have a doorman. A Springer wouldn't be caught dead shopping at Macy's when they had Barney's and Bergdorf's at their disposal. A Springer would never date someone below his or her station.

But, most importantly, a Springer was not supposed to, in under any circumstance, be on the wrong side of the tracks. Ezra was defying the one rule as he and his college buddy wandered the streets of Brooklyn. It wasn't the posh side that his mother approved of though. It was the more _authentic_ side.

Disobeying and bending the family rules gave Ezra a rush of adrenaline. The haughty lifestyle that a Springer was supposed to live wasn't for him – it never was. Ezra never wanted to carry on the family business. When his grandfather mentioned to him that he wanted to pass the museum down to him, Ezra shirked away and told him to give it to his brother, Wesley, instead.

He went to NYU to study English rather than go to Columbia or Yale to study business. It caused uproar within the family. Ezra could remember his grandmother sitting him down, telling him that being a writer was only a romantic fantasy; that he'd fare much better if he "sucked it up" and went into the art business instead.

That had been 8 years ago. Ezra was now 25, lived in a studio apartment, and wrote for a column for a small newspaper. It was all he had ever wanted. Well, _almost_ everything. Someone to come home to would be an added bonus.

"Ah, here we are," his friend, Hardy, spoke. He looked overjoyed as they stood out front the building that read _The Boudoir_ over the front in fluorescent letters. Ezra scrunched up his nose. Strip clubs really weren't his thing. He'd only been to one while in college – another one of Hardy's excursions. Most of the time, Ezra went to rein his friend in. Hardy could get aggressively flirtatious when he had alcohol in him. "Don't look so glum, Fitz. Apparently, they've got the best girls around."

"They've got the cheesiest name around too," Ezra replied, his expression never wavering.

Hardy clapped him on the back. "Don't knock it before you try it. You need to loosen up, which is exactly why we're here. You spend way too much time writing."

Ezra rolled his eyes. "Excuse me for trying to make a living."

"As if _you_ need to make your own income." As Hardy scoffed, Ezra shot him a look almost reminiscent of a death glare. His friend was well aware as to how Ezra felt about his wealth. Majority of the time, he kept it hidden. Hardy came from an affluent background, but was comfortable with it. He enjoyed the fact he didn't have to _actually_ work. That was the dividing difference between him and Ezra. "Sorry, sorry. Just, please. Can you not be stuffy Ezra tonight? We're just going to watch some girls dance."

"_Dance_, right."

"You know what I mean. Just give me an hour. _One hour_."

The curly haired man sighed. "Fine. An hour." Hardy was right – he did need to loosen up a bit. For an hour, Ezra could pretend he was anywhere, but there. Or he could take it all in. Besides, he was breaking another family rule. A Springer wouldn't be caught dead in a strip club.

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**T**he deep purple bags under Aria's eyes had only grown more defined in the last few days. Sleepless night after sleepless night and she was looking reminiscent of zombie by the hour. She usually hated the cake-y makeup they supplied at work, but right now, Aria was thankful that the oil-based foundation covered up her dark circles entirely.

Her "innocence" ensemble had done wonders for her tips at the end of the night. According to the club's owner, Gene, it brought something fresh to the table, something new for the customers to walk out with in their minds. Most of all, it brought him more money. Subsequently, if it brought Gene more money, it ultimately brought Aria a few more dollars in her paycheck at the end of the week. And Aria needed all the money she could get.

She needed an out. Not an out from _The Boudoir_ – she wasn't ready for that, but an out from her mother's apartment. Out from Brooklyn perhaps too. The call from her father two days ago haunted her. When Aria was 8, Byron Montgomery checked out of her life for ten years. He found himself a new family with a wife who had a higher upkeep cost than his own daughter. Every so often, he called, but it chilled Aria to the bone. Why should he care?

The simple answer was that ultimately, he didn't.

A new white lace ensemble lay over the back of her chair. The material wasn't as itchy, but something still felt sleazy about it; something very virginal that made Aria cringe. Was that how she was being perceived – as the club's very own virgin?

Still, there was nothing she could do. If she was going to be labeled the innocent virgin, then she'd play it up. The extra cash was just within reach – Aria could feel it within her fingers grasp. She just needed to up the ante a little bit more. And she knew exactly how.

Every stripper resorted to prostitution at some point. That was life.

The prospect was scary – Aria had never been very good with men. Her last boyfriend wasn't exactly cream of the crop and she certainly didn't expect any man who walked into a low rate strip joint to be first class either. It only had to be for a night, just one night. Aria had a good view from the stage. She could pick out the most normal looking man during her routine and entice them on the dance floor. It wouldn't be too hard – at least she hoped.

Aria began to put on her makeup, staring at the girl in that reflected back in the mirror. She couldn't even call herself a woman. The world Aria lived in was one that was only supposed to be handled by an adult with careful hands, but she was still a little girl floundering whilst trying to find her place among the dust and grime.

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**T**he music began to kick up as Aria entered the stage. It was a slow, jazzy number with cheap choreography. The men in the audience hooted and hollered as she swayed her hips, the white lacing catching in the fluorescent stage lighting. Soon, the swaying turned to grinding and the grinding turned into an unspeakable pole routine. So much for playing the virgin.

Whilst continuing on with her routine, Aria began to search the crowd of men around the stage, waving dollar bills at her. That was the part she hated – that part that always made her feel like a debased human. Not that opting to sell herself out for a night was much better. They all leered at her. It made Aria feel dirty.

All except someone towards the back. A curly haired man sat in one of the chintzy armchairs with a nondescript expression. He sipped at his beer, looking bashfully away from the stage. Either he had never been to a strip club before or he had been dragged against his will. Aria wasn't able to catch a real glimpse of his face, but she noticed a firm jawline and a glint in what appeared to be blue eyes.

The man looked sweet, he looked simple. He looked _normal_. He'd be the perfect candidate.


End file.
